The Nature of Daylight
by musewars
Summary: It's all for Grace. It's only ever been for her.


He grabs the hat and pulls it on his head dramatically. It's from her dress-up chest – or what she calls a dress-up chest, really a small box of assorted items they've collected or made over the years - so it doesn't quite fit him right. Still Jefferson straightens the pointed top so the ribbons are in the back as intended.

The anticipated reaction is achieved. She explodes into a fit of giggles as her papa strikes a pose.

"Oh, a scarf!" he exclaims. His hands dig into the collection once more, producing a thin red piece of fabric much too small for him. Still he manages to wrap it awkwardly around his neck. "What do you think? This work?"

"Pa-pa!" More giggles come, then that mischievous grin so much like her Mama's. Grace reaches to grab the hat from his head. "_I'm_ the princess!"

He smiles to himself, watching as she plops it on her head and smoothes her hair. How silly he must look right now. Downright mad, perhaps.

But it's Grace, his Grace. And as he reaches into the chest for a new hat, this time a rather large tall one, he's reminded of how there are some things a father just does for his little girl.

"You're right," he says to her, making Grace's grin grow larger. "That one fits you perfectly. Now, are we ready for tea?"

[-]

"_Please don't go," her tiny voice whimpers. "Please."_

_It takes all of his resolve to say no. It really does. He can't even look her in the face to say it, so instead lifts her. She's getting so big- one day soon he won't be able to carry her anymore. "I'm sorry baby. I have to."_

_Her arms only grip his neck tighter as she rests her face into his shoulder._

[-]

"You really think you're the Mad Hatter."

Jefferson turns his face towards the ceiling before letting out a sigh. It's to keep him from saying something he will regret. Still he wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He needs her, Emma, the savior, the one with all the power in the world even if she doesn't know it. It's the only way.

But the way she looks at him, that look in her eyes, and the way she addresses him. Like a child. He must hold his tongue. Yet part of him doesn't want to anymore. He's done pleading and attempting to explain. He's tired, angry and just so ready for it to end.

He rounds the table until their faces are mere inches apart. He grips the chair arms tightly before staring into her eyes. "Get it to work," he growls.

He leaves her then, locking the door behind him. Let her toil. Let her bleed and work and beg, his mind angrily states. And yet, still he sighs before walking down the familiar trek of hallway his feet have now-long memorized. To the window, the one strategically placed. He's sure of that.

Regina always did love irony.

The sky is dark, yet her light is on. And there, mere feet from where he stands is Grace, his Grace, his little girl. He feels a lump lodge into his throat as he watches her go through the familiar motions.

So close. So very, very close. Always together, eternally apart.

She sits at a small table, the one near the window. Surrounded by a small group of stuffed companions – a bear, a koala, a doll – each occupying a chair at the table. Her guests. She plops in front of each a small saucer and tea cup.

He knows that tea set. It's the one from home. Her – how he loathes uttering the word, and yet must – parents once bought her a newer set, a nicer one, and yet this is the one which she uses. The first time he had seen it, hope swelled his gut before realization of the true worth. It means nothing. She knows nothing, just like everyone else here.

And yet still he notices how every time she sets a tea party, there is left an empty seat across from hers.

[-]

"_Promise me you'll come back. You have to come back."_

"_Of course."_

"_For our tea party. Promise?"_

"_I promise. I won't miss it for the world."_

[-]

The kid is right, and he knows it. Yet he still can't make himself come from his hiding place behind the pole. Mindlessly Jefferson pulls out the note and stares again, unfolding and folding it repeatedly.

"Have you seen my papa?" It asks below the hand-drawn picture. No, baby; your papa no longer exists. Not as you remember him, anyway.

So why is he here?

The sound of brakes causes his focus to shift. Hurriedly he stuffs the paper into his pocket as a group of girls emerge from the bus. One in particular catches his attention.

This is it. Now or never. He knows that, and still words catch within his throat.

"Grace." Is that his voice? He barely recognizes it. The others keep moving and yet she turns, her eyes wide and… dare he believe hopeful?

There is a moment, perhaps only seconds and yet to him much longer. Neither moves. He swallows; she stares.

Does she see it? His mind wonders. Does she see the fear in his eyes? Can she see the years of yearning and imagining this moment? Does she sense the brokenness of mess he has become?

"Papa!" The tears come immediately at the sound. It is a sound even in his dreams he never heard, never allowed himself to remember. It was too hard, too painful, for it was his darkest fear that he never again would hear her utter that word towards him.

She's running, running for him. Instinctually he kneels and opens his arms. She's there, her arms grasping around his neck. Suddenly he can't think, can only fight the tears as he takes in her grasp. It is as he remembers – her scent, her weight, the way she curls her fingers around his neck. It is exactly the same and yet so different, so very different, because he has waited so long.

"You found me. I always knew you would."

He falls back, unable to stand again even though he feels lighter than ever. He holds her close and breathes in her smell – the same as always – and takes in how it feels to hold her again. And then he stands, carrying her away from the bus stop.

Before he realizes what's happening her fingers have found the scarf around his neck and has pulled it away slightly. The ugly red scar stares back at her. He can say nothing as Grace whispers a gasp. He had hoped this moment not to come, or at least not so soon, and yet...

"Papa," she whispers, then looks into his eyes again. Her fingers lightly touch the scar, running across it. "Does it hurt?"

He chokes back a little, barely issuing a shake of his head. "No, baby. Not anymore."

She kisses her fingers then rubs them against the red line. "I wish I was hurt, not you." Suddenly her face lights up again. "Papa, it's almost tea time. We'll be late if we don't hurry."

Tea time. His promise, made so long ago. Yet there is no anger, no signs of being upset in her voice. She is a child, still, his little girl. And she wants to take tea. "Shall we?" she asks, her voice becoming as it has so many times before, that of a hostess addressing her guest.

"Lead the way, ma'dear." He slips his hand into hers, and off they go.

"Yes." That playful grin returns. "I have just the hat for you to wear."


End file.
